


Love You to Death

by TastesLikeSTFU



Series: Our Children are Killers [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Cannibalism, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Horror, Implied Cannibalism, Implied Dismemberment, Implied necrophilia, Jeffrey Dahmer - Freeform, Lobotomy, M/M, Necrophilia, Prison, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, drugged drinks, people as objects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 09:29:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1977762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TastesLikeSTFU/pseuds/TastesLikeSTFU
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Derek wants is to be able to love someone that won't leave him. And if he has to create this person, well... so be it.</p><p>(Or: The One Where Derek Hale is Actually Jeffrey Dahmer).</p><p> </p><p>  <i>The previous two parts of the series are not necessary to read this. This fic stands alone.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Love You to Death

**Author's Note:**

> I stuck a "Rape/Non-con" warning in this because someone consumes a drugged drink (however, no rape is actually described or perpetrated upon the drugged person) and because there is implied necrophilia and the dead cannot give consent.  
> The purpose of the warning is obviously for people to avoid triggers such as the scene where the person drinks the drugged drink. I could be overreacting but it's always better to be safe than sorry.
> 
> A ridiculous amount of notes at the end that you are more than welcome to ignore.

The coffee pot bubbles in the kitchen.  
A rapid triplet of knocks sounds out.  
I turn the page in my book and it makes a soft noise against my fingertips.  
Another rapid triplet of knocks sounds out, followed by a shout.

"Come on. Open up. I know you're in there."

I sigh, mark my page, and set my book down on the arm of my couch. Without bothering to look through the peephole, I unlock three of four locks on my door- all but for the sliding chain lock. I poke my face through the gap left by the chain. Stiles Stilinski, my landlord's kid and messenger, stands looking grumpy and skinny in his red hoodie, with his arms crossed in front of his chest. I swallow a gob of spit.

"What?"

"We've talked about this. We keep getting complaints. You have to do something about the smell or my dad's going to have you evicted."

"Look, kid-."

"I'm not a kid."

"-I already told you and your dad. My fridge went out, and I'm doing my best. There's only so much rotten meat a dinky apartment gabrage disposal will take before it craps out. And I don't have the cash for a new fridge _and_ a plumber."

"You ever tried opening a window?"

"When I'm at home, yeah. But not while I'm at work."

Stiles sucks on his front teeth, huffs, and says, "Fine. But if there are any more complaints, it won't matter that your fridge went out- you'll have an eviction notice, ASAP."

"Whatever." I snort. He rolls his eyes, and stalks down the hall, muttering about hot, muscular jerks.

I close my door. I lock back up.

* * *

"Here you go. One rum and coke." I hand Isaac his drink, taking a sip of my own sweet vodka mixture, and plopping down on my couch next to him.

"Thanks." He says, taking a sizable first drink, "Hey, I don't mean to offend, but what is that smell? It was really strong in the hall and it's real strong in here."

"One of my neighbors, I think. I'm, like, 90% sure I live next door to a serial killer that hides the bodies of his victims in his apartment. Just sayin'."

He snorts, shoves my shoulder, and takes another long drink.

After a moment of silence, I say, "You're a good looking guy. D'you mind if I take some pictures?"

Isaac smirks at me, "I don't mind at all."

On my way past, I bury my fingers in his curls and give them a ruffle. He laughs and swats at my hand.  
When I come back with my camera, Isaac has thrown his jacket across the back of my couch , and he sits with his legs splayed wide and comfortable. He's casting curious glances around my home. I take a picture of him with his eyes upward. He grins at me over the rim of his drink and takes another sip. I take another picture- I want to take as many pictures of him as I can while I have him here. I want to keep him as he is in this moment, so alive in all of his warm lines and his smiles half hidden behind the glass in his hand.

"You should make yourself more comfortable." I say.

"Yeah," says Isaac, "Sure." He leans forward to set his drink on my coffee table and then pulls his shirt over his head. He sinks back into the couch cushions and I watch the way his skin shifts over his muscles. I take three more pictures.

"I gotta say, I am really appreciating this angle, mmm."  
I bite my lip, sliding my blunt teeth over the flesh there. I take a large gulp of my drink. Isaac brushes his fingers up and down his stomach, and this time, his smile is slow and coy.

"There's an even better angle I can think of." He reaches out to grab his drink and down the rest of it, then he stands, his hips swaying a little as he approaches me. I set my drink down, letting my eyes graze over his body.  
When he kisses me, I lean into it, welcoming the warmth of his body and the dampness of his mouth. As best as I can, I angle the camera at us and take a picture. Isaac laughs into the kiss.

"Kinky fucker." He calls me.

"You have no idea." I say, directing us to the couch. His calves hit the couch and I push him down, straddling his hips, licking into his mouth. Isaac grunts, running his hands up and down my back. We kiss heatedly for a few more moments before his body goes slack under mine. He has passed out.  
I pull away from his unconscious lips and look at his face. He looks like he could simply be sleeping. I stand and maneuver him to lie on his back on the couch. In the kitchen, I bring out my small pouch of tools and take them back to the living room.

Again, I straddle his hips, unrolling the pouch across his chest. I take out a long metal skewer, usually used for kabobs, and a small hammer. Carefully, I lift his eyelid, set the skewer up against his eye socket, and begin tapping the flat end with my small hammer.

If I do this correctly, when Isaac awakens, he should be passive, docile, empty. He'll never leave me. He'll never want to.  
I have practiced this before. The others were failed experiments, but this time, I will succeed.

I move the skewer around at alotted angles, severing the connective tissue between the prefrontal cortex and the thalamus, driving the skewer farther in when need be. I pull it out, slowly, and repeat the process on Isaac's other eye.  
When I am done, I wash and thoroughly sanitize the skewer (as well as the hammer for good measure). I prop Isaac up to the arm of the couch and then settle in with him, pressing my face to his shoulder, savoring his presence. My camera lies, forgotten on the floor. I pick it back up to take one last picture of us for the night.

In the picture, my head rests on his shoulder, his face blank, his eyes already swelling a bit. I smile widely. I am happy.

* * *

When I wake, I wake to the sound of Isaac's heart beating in my ear. I smile and curl my face into his neck.  
I look up at him. His eyes have bruised deeply but the swelling hasn't gotten any worse. Everything to be expected. I get up, careful not to jostle him too much. Touching his forehead, I find he has a slight fever. So, I get him a cool, damp cloth and press it to his face, kissing his cheek every now and then.  
Afer all, he _is_ mine now, and I have to take care of him. I kiss him one more time, then go out to the kitchen to make breakfast. I have applesauce cups I can feed Isaac when he wakes up.

I make myself some eggs and toast. I am prepared to go and sit with Isaac, to watch over him with observant eyes, but when I sit down next to him, he isn't breathing. I panic, drop my plate, and start CPR.

Five minutes of chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth yield nothing. I am all alone again.  
Left with nothing but my turbulent emotions- sinking dismay, white hot rage- and unable to think of anything else, I pick my plate up off the floor and throw it against the wall. I scream, I am so angry. My neighbors pound on the wall. But I do not care how much of a disruption I am causing so early in the morning.

I wanted to keep Isaac. I _wanted_ him. For myself and myself alone. He was _mine_.  
I grip my head in my hands, nails digging into my scalp. I scream again at the floor, snatch my leftover vodka glass from the table and throw it at the wall. I can hear my neighbors pounding once more, shouting through the plaster, "If you don't cut that out, I'm calling the police!"

I don't care. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care. It was supposed to work. I believed so much that it would work this time. My hands tremble where they rest in my hair, I inhale shakily and exhale on a sob.

I'm such a useless failure.

* * *

Erica leans against me sweetly. This time, I know I will succeed. Isaac was just a bump in the road, a mistake. I'll do better this time.  
I'll get to keep Erica as she is- soft curves, smooth skin, long, fragrant blonde hair.

She smiles against the skin of my neck as I crack jokes. She pinches her fingers at the hem of the sleeve of my (Isaac's) leather jacket. Erica presses her whole side to mine, resting her head on my shoulder. I can smell her conditioner. It is intoxicating.  
I bury my face in her hair, breathing deeply. Erica sighs contentedly, snuggling my shoulder. The charm bracelet on her wrist makes a quiet tinkling sound and it clinks when she adjusts her grip on her empty glass.

"You're such a sweetheart, Derek," she says, "you're a nice guy."

Soon, I won't be such a nice guy.

My arm is around her shoulders and I give her a firm squeeze, asking, "Want a refill on your drink?"

"Yeah."

I stand from the couch, plucking the empty glass from her hand, and head to the kitchen. From my cabinet, I grab the rum. From the fridge, I grab the coke. I have to shift the dismembered head out of the way to make room for the liter bottle. Its grey eyes stare at me through the saran wrap. I smile at it, closing the fridge door.  
I mix the drink, and then, from one of my drawers, I withdraw a bottle of sleeping pills. I crush up four of them and add them to her drink. I hear the tinkling of Erica's charm bracelet and look up. She stands in the doorway, staring at the pill bottle on the counter. Then she looks at me. We stand at an impasse for what must only be a few seconds but it feels like hours. Suddenly, she makes a break for the door.

I catch up to her as she pulls open the door. I slap my right hand to the door, closing it forcefullly and yank her back by the hair with my left.  
She screams. I slam her to the wall, pressing my forearm to her throat, putting pressure on her windpipe so that she will not scream again.

"Sh-sh-shhh."

Erica struggles, digs her nails in and leaves deep scratches down the side of my neck. I lean out of her grip, the skin pulling and burning on my neck, fumbling to get both of her wrists in one of my hands. She wheezes under my weight, makes strange gurgling, clicking noises.

"No, no. It's okay. I was never going to hurt you. I was _never_ going to hurt you- _stop struggling_ \- I didn't want you to leave. It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

She continues to thrash as much as possible and it enrages me. I _told_ her I would not hurt her, why is she still scared?  
Erica brings her leg up and knees me in the groin. I go down like a ton of bricks. I can hear her coughing, and I see her trip a little on her way to the door. Despite the pain radiating through my abdomen and crotch, I manage to grab her around the ankle and trip her. She cries out- a pathetic almost frustrated sound. Erica kicks out blindly and nails me in the mouth.  
Snarling, I grab both her ankles and drag her to me. I flip her over, sitting on her sternum. I use my knees to pin her arms down, and I wrap my hands around her throat.

In this moment I am so blinded by my rage that I lose time, I think I have blacked out. By the time I come back to myself, Erica is dead. I have killed her. It takes me a moment to realize this, as if my brain does not understand what it is seeing. I don't know how long my hands were around her throat but there are bruises there, and the small blood vessels in her eyes have burst. When it finally hits me, it is like Isaac all over again. The despair I feel is deep, overwhelming. It physically hurts me and I grow short of breath. I scramble away from her until my back hits a solid surface, panting.

I did not mean to kill her. I wanted to keep her.  I loved her. As best as I could, I loved her and yet, I still killed her.

* * *

I am awaken at seven in the morning by someone knocking at my door. I roll myself out of bed, carefully tucking the covers back over the body next to mine. I stumble my way to the door, and look out the peephole this time. There stands Stiles Stilinski, gangly long limbs tucked into a graphic tee and covered with an unbuttoned plaid shirt. I unlock all of my locks and open the door widely.

He looks shocked, taking in my fat, busted lip, and the deep gouges on my neck.  
"What the hell happened to you?"

"It's seven in the morning. What do you want, Stilinski?"

He seems to ruffle at that, his eyes narrowing and his brows pinching, he quickly switches subjects, "We've gotten more complaints about you, asshole. Screams in here at all hours of the night. Tone it down."

"What can I say?" I reply, rubbing the scratches on my neck purposefully, Erica's charm bracelet tinkling lightly on my wrist, "I have an active night life."

Stiles tracks the movement and flushes a deep red. It's attractive on him, and for a moment, I want to bite his at cheeks until I draw blood.

" _Right_. W-well. Keep it down."

I watch him stalk down the hall until he disappears through the door to the stairwell.

* * *

I should have known better. I'm so _stupid_. So _fucking stupid_.  
Shit. Shit. Shit. _Shit_.

I should have waited longer after Erica. I should have waited longer. Then maybe I wouldn't be standing here, watching Boyd run out of the building from my window.  
He's a faster runner than I am and I know he'll bring the police.

So, I sit on my couch and wait, Isaac's jacket heavy on my shoulders, Erica's bracelet weighty on my wrist. The door is unlocked- in fact it is still open a few inches. I wait.

* * *

The building has been evacuated so that the police can do their work without obstacles in the form of gawking people sticking their heads out their doors and asking questions. I sit on my couch with my wrists behind my back, locked in handcuffs. The police roam around my home, digging and searching through things.  
Upon finding the head in my refrigerator and the various other body parts and bones and bits of physical evidence stashed everywhere, I am lead downstairs to one of the waiting cop cars out front.

Once outside, I find the walkway is roped off and the residents of my building stand on the lawn and some out in the street. Among them, I see Stiles and his father, clad in their sleepwear. He shifts awkwardly on his feet, and our eyes meet. He looks surprised. I close my eyes, turn my head away. I don't want him to see me, even though there is nowhere for me to hide.

I do not watch out the window as the cop car pulls away from the curb.  
I know that they will find more than they bargained for in my apartment- the bodies, the bones, the barrels full of acid, my toolkit, the digital camera memory cards full of pictures.  
I know that I will never see the light of day as a free person again.

* * *

_Mom,_  
_How are you? How're dad and the girls? Haven't seen you all in a while. Maybe you could come up for the next visiting day?_  
_Cora sent me a letter the other day. She's excited about starting her new job at the bookstore. I think it's because she gets discounted coffee whenever she wants it. She also told me Laura's expecting. Can't wait to see pictures of my new niece or nephew. I am very excited for them both._

_I got a new cellmate a few days ago. My first one didn't feel comfortable around me. Can't say I blame him, though._

_I got a job here at the prison. I make almost $30 a month, cleaning the bathrooms and sorting the books at the library. They only have the first , fourth, and fifth Harry Potter books. Maybe if I save up enough, I can buy the missing ones for the library? I think that would be nice._

_I think I'll end the letter here._  
_I tried calling you earlier in the week, but no one must have been home. I'll try again later. Hope things are going well for you. Miss you, love you._

_-Derek_

**Author's Note:**

> Some real life things that inspired things in this fic:
> 
> • Jeffrey Dahmer's apartment did have a very pervasive stench. He kept the bodies of some of his victims in large industrial barrels full of acid to dissolve them. He was, in fact, approached by his landlord about the smell.
> 
> • Dahmer did have multiple locks on his door and even a dummy security camera. He was so paranoid about someone breaking into his apartment and finding all of the macabre things hidden inside.
> 
> • Dahmer took photos of victims and potential victims. Before and after their deaths. Often he would offer young men money to pose for photographs, drugging them with sleeping pills mixed into drinks. When they fell asleep, he would molest them. Sometimes, when they fell asleep, he would drill holes into their skulls, pouring bleach or drain cleaner in, in an attempt to create a living zombie. More often than not, though, they died from massive trauma to the brain.
> 
> • I like to think Dahmer was inadvertently a serial killer. He never intended to hurt or kill a lot of his victims and even regretted the fact that they died. If he had succeeded in creating his living zombie, chances are, he would not have killed 17 people.
> 
> • The sister of one of his victims visited him in prison and asked him why he chose her brother. Dahmer told her that he liked the way her brother moved. (I try to illustrate this as well as I can with the camaraderie between Derek and Isaac).
> 
> • Dahmer was a smooth talking man. In 1991, Dahmer abducted, drugged, and sexually assaulted 14 year old Konerak Sinthasomphone. He left the drugged boy in his apartment when he went out to purchase alcohol. Sinthasomphone managed to stumble his way to the street where two women found him and contacted police. Dahmer realized the boy had gotten lose, approached the police, and convinced them that the 14 year old was his lover and that they'd gotten into a fight. The police let Dahmer take him to his apartment, where he was later killed. (In the fic, Derek subtly convinces Stiles that the screams are actually sexual in nature).
> 
> • Jeffrey Dahmer actually had a decapitated head in his refrigerator at the time he was caught. He also had a heart in the freezer "to eat for later".
> 
> • Dahmer was eventually caught when his next intended "subject" Tracy Edwards was lured back to his apartment. The only thing that saved Edwards's life that night was his dislike of hard liquor, which Dahmer used in the drinks he drugged (ie: the rum and coke). Edwards managed to escape Dahmer, run out of the building, and flag down a police car.
> 
> • The remains of 11 bodies were found in Jeffrey Dahmer's apartment. He would later confess to 17 murders in all. Upon searching his home, police found bones and dismembered body parts, among many other important pieces of evidence.
> 
> • Title comes from a card a young Jeffrey Dahmer made for his father, reading:  
>  _“The squash and the pumpkins can never compare, to the kind of dad that has curly hair.  
>  This poem is from Jeff, and I love you to death.”_ 
> 
> There _is_ a lot of stuff here, I know. So, if you have any questions about Jeffrey Dahmer or serial killers in general, just message me on my [tumblr.](http://imjustsotiredallthetime.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> _Additionally, if you should meet the actors, writers, creator, or anyone involved with the show/book/movie this fanfiction is about, please do not inform them, encourage them to read, or make them read this unless you have explained to me in detail why you want to expose them to my writing and have received my explicit permission to do so._


End file.
